


i think you're so good (i'm nothing like you)

by MulaSaWala



Series: sometimes things fall apart (so better things can fall together) [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Dark John, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Mutual Pining, Podfic Welcome, Romance, alive nathan ingram, as dark as I can make him, or at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-05-10 12:28:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 20,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14736974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MulaSaWala/pseuds/MulaSaWala
Summary: Harold was there when they first met, was in fact instrumental to the situation. After all, it had been his machine that pointed Grace out to them, to Nathan.Not even a year later, he stood as best man to their wedding, wondering if he'd ever find someone to spend his life with.





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _If I could begin to be_  
>  _Half of what you think of me_  
>  _I could do about anything_  
>  _I could even learn how to love_  
> 
> _I always thought I might be bad_  
>  _Now I'm sure that it's true_  
>  _Because I think you're so good_  
>  _and I'm nothing like you_
> 
> _look at you go_  
>  _I just adore you_  
>  _I wish that I knew_  
>  _What makes you think I'm so special?_
> 
> _If I could begin to do_  
>  _something that does right by you_  
>  _I could do about anything_  
>  _I could even learn how to love, like you_  
>  _love me, like you_

It had become almost routine. Grace fetched the first aid kit, and a heated pad for Harold's poor back, as Nathan shuffled into the safehouse.

Despite his injuries, today had been a good day. Their number had been a simple one, easy enough to save. An ex-boyfriend who wanted his then-girlfriend dead was not uncommon. When they'd first begun this people-saving, Grace had been horrified to find out just how often it happened. But now she was almost glad when this was the case: It had become the type of case they did well with.

The man was now awaiting trial in a jail cell, for assault. He had not been granted bail, and now, thanks to Harold's efforts, he had no money, either. Further tweaking with the online records at the prosecutors' office would ensure that the case would go to an attorney with a good history for putting domestic abusers away. Grace's own involvement, this time around, was in convincing the ex-girlfriend to report her ex-boyfriend to the authorities, so that the charges _would stick this time._

 

In this safehouse, Harold often sat at the kitchen table, his technological paraphernalia spread out before him. Nathan collapsed onto a chair beside his friend, as Grace placed the objects she was carrying on the table, freeing her hands to give her husband a hug. After she patched Nathan up, the two of them would go home, to their lovely house she'd painted an outrageous color, and Harold would go to wherever it was that he stayed in order to maintain his flock of aliases. But before he went home, Grace knew, he would go to the subway, take down the number's picture, file things away, and do a hundred other little things.

Still, for now, they had nothing to do but rest.

It was a quiet moment. Peaceful. It was not an easy task, to save lives. But months after _'the yacht incident'_ , Harold's injuries, being on the run… Grace was starting to get her feet under her. The three of them were finally starting to put their lives back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the second of three fics! My buddy for the POI Exchange had three prompts, and they were all awesome, so I wanted to do them all. Unfortunately, I may have been a little overambitious, so I was only able to make the first fic. 
> 
> Also, My favorite prompt was the second one (this one), so while I did enjoy working on Learning to Fall, I spent the lion's share of the time working on this one. This one is longer, but unfortunately I didn't finish it in time, So it's not part of the exchange. :P
> 
> Anyway, Gracefultree, I hope you like it! :D
> 
> The song at the beginning is where I got the title from, and it's from Steven Universe!


	2. The Wedding

It was crowded in the courthouse. Of all the things that Harold would remember about this day, that would be one of the most vivid, he could already tell. The press of bodies, the energy in the air. Harold felt a bit overwhelmed just watching the proceedings from his vantage point in the pews. Never mind the crush of the small crowd that had gathered at the front of the church.

Until Grace had enlightened him, Harold hadn’t even known that mass weddings existed. He'd grown up in a modest household, lower middle class all the way, but (he was ready to admit) he’d been an _excessively_ wealthy man for long enough that it was hard to picture a time when he'd been anything else. Mass weddings, by their very nature, were attended by the lower echelons of society, the ones unable to book an entire church, who could not afford a reception, a grand cake, or even the rings that traditionally cost three months' salary.

As it was, the somewhat guilty thought in his head right now was that he would have been happy to rent Nathan and Grace almost _any place they would have cared to name_ , just to avoid this sea of people. Just a few minutes ago, a large gentleman had jostled him quite roughly, and the subsequent apology had not eased the pain in his back. Then a small child had attempted to wipe a finger on his suit jacket, and only the mother’s quick action had saved everyone from tears. (Whether they would have come from the child or Harold was anyone’s guess.)

As Harold noted, a bit crossly, the two lovebirds who called themselves his friends didn’t even seem to notice the crowd; they only had eyes for each other. With a tinge of melancholy, he watched them hold hands. On top of the melancholy was a little envy, too… but that was easy to dismiss in the face of his friends’ happiness.

It was a bit of a shock to Harold, how necessary Grace had become to both men. For the longest time, it had been Harold and Nathan against the world; how strange and wonderful to think that it was now Harold, Nathan, and Grace. He'd been there when Nathan and Grace first met -- had, in fact, been instrumental to the situation. After all, it had been his Machine that pointed Grace out to them, to Nathan.

Not even a year later, here he was, standing as best man to their wedding and wondering if he'd ever find someone to spend his life with.

Not that he considered his relationships with Nathan or Grace to be insignificant. Quite the opposite, in fact. But he'd never yet gotten to experience a significant romantic relationship, and he knew that he wanted that. Wanted someone to be intimate with, to share his life with, in a way that was different from the way he did with Grace and Nathan. Decades ago, not long after meeting Nathan, he'd briefly considered the possibility of romance, but the thought hadn't gone very far before Nathan had shown his overwhelming preference for the female gender.

Shortly after meeting Grace, Harold had found himself contemplating a future in which they were more than just friends… but Nathan had made the first move, and Harold didn't begrudge him that happiness. Clearly, their union had become deeper and more meaningful than any relationship Nathan had ever managed in all the time Harold had known him.

As it was, their current situation with the Machine made finding a partner… unlikely, when Harold was feeling particularly hopeful; impossible, when he was not. While he was actively on the run from the U.S. government, the thought of courting someone -- or being courted -- just made him uncomfortable.

Movement out of the corner of his eye made him turn his head, and he saw Grace and Nathan waving their arms like mad, trying to get his attention. Harold smiled and waved, feeling a rush of gratitude at having them in his life. Grace mimed taking a picture while Nathan pointed at the pastor: They were next.

Harold shook off his less-than-happy thoughts, and proceeded to document his friends’ special day.


	3. The Proposal

To Nathan's eternal regret, it was Grace who popped the question. He hadn't planned for it at all, had been too busy adjusting to a life on the run, dedicated to the Numbers that needed their help.

And he knew that, at the end of the day, a marriage certificate was just a piece of paper.

Except… Grace had sat him down one fine day, while they were in central park, and he'd had to hug her tight to hide the tears in his eyes. He hadn't expected that two rings, simple gold and not a single karat between them, would mean more to him than the world.

* * *

Nathan's first wedding, back in Texas, had been the affair of the season. The guest list had been a mile long, half of whom he didn't even know. His father had booked The Corinthian, an architectural jewel in Houston, the hall's imposing marble columns lit up with fairytale lights.

The food had been similarly opulent, eschewing the the predictable champagne and lobster dishes or salmon mousse hors d’oeuvres and deviled eggs. The chefs had coordinated with the interior designer to bring that otherworldly feeling to the room and the result was a menu comprising smoked quails breasts and roasted garlic with aioli. Even the centerpieces were edible, so guests could nibble on them while waiting, as if they were in a forest.

The music had matched, a live orchestra to accompany the guests as they danced.

By contrast, a courthouse wedding was a paltry thing. A group wedding, with couples being married en masse. Nathan hadn’t even know that such a thing was done; it had been Grace’s idea all the way.

As he waited to be prompted for the next part of the ritual, he recalled how beautiful Olivia had looked, dressed to the nines with heirloom jewelry and a wedding dress personally designed by Elie Saab. Nathan could see her drifting down the aisle, resplendent, the white lace contrasting her rich brown skin; she’d caught every eye, like a princess, a queen.

But Nathan had never been so enchanted by all that splendor as he was by the sight of one dimpled redhead in a simple sundress, waiting for his arm, for his hand in marriage.

(She'd already taken his heart.)

 

Nathan’s previous wedding had been attended by dignitaries and politicians, been touted in the paper (no pictures, of course, nothing so classless and pedestrian, his parents had decreed), had been the talk of the town for months. But the ceremony he would cherish would be this one, small and simple and perfect.

With Harold Sparrow standing as witness, everyone important to Nathan Paxton and Grace Marshall was already there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES: Food description from https://www.easyweddings.com.au/articles/masterchef-judge-gary-mehigans-recipe-wedding-food-success/ because I don’t know squat about fancy food. TuT


	4. Superheroes

Grace felt like she'd aged ten years in the last month. As a teen, she'd read a lot of Batman comics, and she finally understood why he was always frowning: Being a superhero was exhausting.

That was what she thought of what they were doing, in the privacy of her own head. They were being superheroes.

Nathan had a superhuman level of good looks and charisma, though Grace admitted that she might be biased in that regard. Other than that, if she had to pin it down, Nathan would be one of those older heroes, the ones without superpowers who still risked their lives to protect the vulnerable. Spirit, or the Phantom, or Zorro. Not that Nathan's combat skills were anything to boast about, but neither his friend nor his wife was any better.

Harold could vanish so easily that Grace had once contemplated putting him on a leash. And he was apparently some sort of superhuman genius when it came to computers; that was the reason they could do this at all. Almost every morning, they got a new number, sometimes more than one, and that was the start of the case. The incomprehensible system that Harold had created -- and Grace still wasn't ready to believe that he'd actually created a program that could _predict the future_ \-- expected them to intervene, but kept them in the dark about whether the person it pushed them toward was a victim or a threat.

(Once, when she'd pressed for an answer, Harold had explained a little of his thought process: _I would always rather that a human element remain… in determining something so critical as someone's fate_. She'd remained skeptical until she'd picked up on how weary the confession seemed to make him… and recalled that he had designed the data to be used by an entirely different type of people.)

And Grace herself? Rather boring, she supposed, compared to her tiny circle of friends. She'd started taking classes in first aid; that was useful, especially when Nathan forgot his own limitations and ended up limping back to base camp a little worse for wear. Sometimes Grace could help by talking to people, reaching out to them in a way that neither Harold nor Nathan was skilled at. Still, if she was little more than the Alfred, that was fine by her. Someone had to keep the hearth warm.

…that wasn't quite so metaphorical, actually. Because, to top it off, they even had a secret underground base: an old subway station that Nathan had all but forgotten about owning. (Thankfully, there weren't any bats. Rats, on the other hand…)

Back in Washington, she'd gotten used to crowded cities, but Seattle, Tacoma, and Bellevue had nothing on the Big Apple. Harold had found them a nice brownstone in Boerum Hill, within walking distance of countless boutiques and galleries, the perfect place for an artist like her to thrive… and yet, she found herself spending most of her free time in the subway hideout. First to make it livable, and then because it was the one place where she could be sure that she wasn't being watched.

By Harold. Or, rather, Harold's creation. It was unsettling to think that some computer program was analyzing her every move, and she chafed at the loss of privacy even in her own home. There were cameras everywhere except for the bathroom and (she hoped) the bedroom, but the increase in security didn't much reassure her.

So she made herself at home in the subway, tallying up their wins and losses, making charts and mapping out contingencies (that Harold went out of his way to poke holes in), and doing her best to pull in research from other first responders. (Because that was what they were, at this point: the first to arrive at the scene of a crime. Long before the cops found out.) Sometimes she could pull up data faster than Harold could, on an extremely limited number of topics, and she liked to think that that helped, a little.

But if Grace was being honest with herself (and she usually tried to be), she would say that, in her opinion, they were doing a really bad job. No matter how much they prepared, how fast Harold tracked down the data or rerouted digital resources, how much Nathan trained or how readily he charged in, the numbers never seemed to get any better.

For every five cases, they managed to save a single life. More or less.

They had to find a way to do better than this.

* * *

“That is a terrible idea,” Harold said, before taking a bite from the pancakes that he’d stacked neatly on his plate. They were light, fluffy things, dripping with syrup, and Harold took a moment to savor the bite.

They were all having breakfast on the subway, their regular weekend routine. There was a timeless quality to what they did, the saving people’s lives thing; it wasn't unusual for a case to spread across multiple days, even keep them up 36 hours straight (“More criminals should keep regular office hours,” Nathan had joked on more than a couple occasions). With none of them holding down regular jobs or following anything like a proper schedule, it would've been all too easy to lose themselves in the "mission." Concerned that they'd lose that connection to the world, Nathan had insisted on the weekend breakfasts, with Grace and Nathan cooking, while Harold supplied the drinks. Grace had approved of the idea, unconcerned by the steady march of days and hours but quite determined to ensure that they still did the little things that made them happy. Especially given how grim their task could get, at times.

This particular morning, the weather was just starting to get nippy, and Grace was looking forward to wearing colorful scarves again, and seeing pumpkin spice take over the world.

As Harold blissfully chewed his mouthful of pancake, Nathan countered with, “It’s a _great_ idea,” speaking through a mouthful of bacon and eggs. Grace knew that he never did that anywhere else; it was entirely for Harold’s benefit, to needle a reaction out of Nathan's prissy friend. Predictably, Harold grimaced, mouth turning down at the corners in distaste.

“Harold, we need someone who knows what they’re doing.” Nathan swallowed. “Aren’t there black-market mercenaries for this sort of thing?”

“It’s hardly that simple, Nathan. The black market isn’t like the farmers’ market; you can’t just peruse all the resumes like organic fruit and pick the one you like.”

“It would be so convenient if it were though,” Grace chimed in, before taking a sip of her juice. It was pulpy, just the way she liked it. “Maybe that should be your next project, Harold.”

She got the vague feeling that Harold was inches from sticking out his tongue at here; she beamed at the face he made in response instead.

A few minutes of semi-comfortable silence passed, before Nathan tried again with, "Maybe we should hire someone from private security?" Harold glared at him, but he grinned back, unrepentant.

Harold shook his head. “Someone in private security would be protecting _us_ , not the the number.”

“There must be _someone_ we can hire, Harold. Are you honestly saying there’s no one? That can’t be true.”

“Even if we did find someone, think of the security risk! Nosing around, trying to figure out where we're getting our intel… and I wouldn't really blame them; we'd be asking them to risk their lives without being able to tell them _why_.”

“We don’t have to,” Nathan insisted, relentless. “Just say the job is on a need-to-know basis. Find one of those ex-military types who follow orders first and ask questions never.”

Harold sighed, putting down his fork. The pancakes still looked delicious, but he found that he’d lost his appetite. “I think you’ll find that those kinds of people don’t actually leave the military, Nathan. They get go up in the ranks, or they _die_.”

Nathan gave Harold a look that definitely meant _you know what I mean_ >:( 

Harold sighed, because he did, and turned to the other person at the table, who'd been watching the back and forth like a tennis match.

“What do you think, Grace?” Harold asked.

Grace paused, a mouthful of oatmeal keeping her from speaking. Instead, she makes a noise and a face.

_Who, me?_

Harold nodded, his expression roughly as lighthearted as a plague doctor as he pushed aside the plate of sadly forgotten pancakes, already starting to get soggy. His eyes didn't leave her face; he wasn't letting her sit this one out this time.

“Well,” she said, after swallowing, “Maybe it’s not such a bad idea? It would be nice to know that the two of you have someone out there watching your backs,” she went on. “Someone who knows what they’re doing.”

 

Looking between the two of them, Harold deflated a little, aware that he was outnumbered. 

"Okay," he said, simply, and went back to his pancakes.


	5. A New Recruit

As Nathan and Grace looked over his shoulder, like a pair of interested cats, Harold took them on a tour of the shallowest parts of the Dark Web. Mercenaries and marijuana, mostly; there was no reason for them to grasp the full depths of the depravity that could be purchased online.

Harold was no stranger to the Dark Web. While training the Machine, he’d needed to guide it through the complicated mess of online activity, as it related to people’s actions outside of the internet. It had been… difficult. But necessary. Even now, he liked to keep a hand in, as it were… keep himself informed, at least in broad strokes, of the more unsavory aspects of the world wide web.

This was the first time he was on it actively looking to purchase services, though: In this case, an employee. In a matter of hours, he'd unearthed dozens of possibilities; it took barely a day to narrow it down to a short list of four possible candidates. Of course, knocking possibilities off the list was the easy part -- vetting the remaining candidates was going to take quite a bit longer. Harold told his companions that he would run some very thorough background checks, and get back to them with the results.

* * *

From her place in the background, the Machine stirred. Four candidates, her father had chosen, out of a pool of hundreds… but, even after controlling for factors such as proximity, availability, and likely threats to their operation, there were many candidates more viable than these. Rather than choosing the most optimal candidates for the work that needed doing, Admin had chosen for a different criteria. How odd. What was he planning?

She considered several thousand scenarios, before coming to a conclusion. At this point in time, her primary objective (one of many, all chosen by her) dovetailed nicely with her father’s.

_Primary Objective: Bring ADMIN into contact with John [REDACTED] (ssn: 380-00-0050)_

 

_Secondary Objective: Direct Harold to optimal operative candidate_

_Optimal Operative - Table of Qualifications: {table 315.3290.6}_

_Compatibility of upcoming irrelevant numbers to Primary Objective: Searching…_

_Three hundred and twenty seven (327) results. See: (…)_

_Command: Sort by decreasing probability of encounter_

_Top result: Daniel Casey (ssn: 787-07-0966)_

_Cross reference: Probability of success re.PrimaryObjective; Candidate recommendation (score: table 315.3290.6)_

 

The Machine ran her calculations, and came to another conclusion, regarding the operative she would eventually recommend.

 

The least qualified candidate would yield the highest probability for encounter.

 

_Cross reference: Probability of success re.PrimaryObjective; Candidate recommendation (lowest on score: table 315.3290.6); Survival rate re.787-07-0966_

 

In all scenarios, Daniel Casey’s survival ran between the high seventies and low eighties.

 

_It was time to complete a primary objective._

* * *

Unbeknownst to a certain CIA operative all the way across the world, the direction of his life had just changed drastically…

* * *

Harold honestly hadn’t considered asking the machine for input, but she (as Grace often referred to the Machine) gave it anyway. She tried to be subtle about it, nudging his search queries here and there, an avenue of information suddenly opening up for no reason. Still, he'd built the Machine, and he knew what she was trying to say.

Mr. Dillinger was the winner, it seemed.

But looking through the information that he’d compiled, Harold was left metaphorically scratching his head. According to the mountains of data he'd sifted through, including (but hardly limited to) various background checks, the probability of future success, and team compatibility based on behavioral analysis profiles, Mr. Dillinger seemed the _weakest_ candidate.

Harold gave it some consideration. Maybe reject this one? But after months of working together, Harold had a great deal of trust with the Machine concerning matters such as these. She’d come a long way from the fledgling machine he’d built what felt like a lifetime ago.

 

Decisions, decisions…

* * *

“He looks good, Harold,” Grace said, sounding far more positive than Harold felt. Harold couldn’t have said why, but he’d been sure that Grace and Nathan would share his concerns.

Instead, they approved. Or, well, Nathan trusted his judgment, and had been fine with all four possibilities. It was Grace, in particular, who loved Dillinger.

Harold leveled her with an unimpressed look. “It seems you have a type,” he said, with no small amount of fondness. In all fairness, she'd hardly be the only one to find _tall, athletic, and blond_ so attractive. Harold could certainly appreciate all of those things on Nathan… but, on Dillinger, he found the same attributes… distasteful.

Grace stuck out a tongue at him, stained blue by the blueberries in her breakfast pancakes. Their initial discussion had been two weeks ago, and Harold hadn’t known a moment’s peace since then, with the two of them hounding him, asking if he’d had a chance to look over the candidates.

The bulk of the work had fallen on Harold, which he preferred; he trusted his ability to sort data far better than anyone else's, and with good reason. Nathan had helped with some of the background checks, but then three numbers had appeared all at once, distracting them. Each case had been simple enough to solve, though, with some footwork from Nathan, and the judicious application of Harold’s considerable wealth. Maybe the Machine was stating to learn which numbers they were capable of saving?

It was clear that the Machine didn't just send them every possible case; the cases were never more than a day's drive from their base of operations, and that location had moved along with them when they'd fled Washington and made their new home in New York. He had yet to determine if there were other criteria by which she tailored their workload; he would've thought that she'd just send every case their way, and leave it to the humans to determine which ones were solvable, but it was starting to seem like the numbers that the Machine sent were being tailored to their specific skill sets.

Were that truly the case, then bringing in another helping hand would increase the variety of cases that they were capable of working, along with, ideally, their overall success rate. But he hesitated to mention this factor to his friends; Grace and Nathan had objected to anyone sorting lives by importance, so how much more would they object to someone sorting lives by mere convenience?

Still, he _had_ , quite deliberately, chosen less-than-ideal candidates to begin with; it was hardly surprising to find they had some deficits. So, despite his misgivings, if Grace, Nathan, and the Machine all thought this Mr. Dillinger fellow could work, then he would place his trust in them.

Filing the thought away for a later date, Harold retaliated for Grace's uncouth behavior by stealing one of her pancakes.

* * *

The “interview,” as Nathan glibly called Dillinger's trial run, had revealed enough about the man that Harold was ready to toss him to the curb and try for the next candidate. They'd needed someone who didn't push for the source of their intel, but not someone this apathetic about it. And the man certainly had the skills they needed, but showed practically zero regard for possible casualties.

Even so, Grace talked Harold into giving Dillinger more of a chance. “Maybe he's a mercenary now,” she said, “but you don't know what else he could become. Maybe he's just never had a chance. Everyone deserves a chance to do something good.”

Unconvinced, Harold made a sound, to which Grace replied with a sigh.

“Come on. Are any of us truly suited to this work? I’m a painter, for crying out loud! And Nathan… I love the man, but it’s hard to imagine someone less suited for discretion.” 

That was… fair. Since fleeing Washington, Harold had found himself with a _mountain_ of digital records that he'd had to go back and edit, replacing photos of his delightfully photogenic and paparazzi-friendly friend with someone who looked _just close enough_. Enough for anyone who didn’t know him personally to think that, ah, they were mistaken, he only _looked like_ the IFT guy.

“Don’t dismiss him right away, Harold,” Grace was saying, and it was Harold's turn to sigh. Just as Nathan could egg him on, Grace, he was finding, was good at talking him down. And her assurance that he would listen to her counsel, take her words to heart… that meant a lot to him.

* * *

In the end, Harold hired Dillinger, but with a caveat: He would deal with Harold alone. As far as the operative was concerned, there was no one else in their little 'team'.

Nathan hadn't known how to deal with that; long before Grace had entered the picture, they'd gotten used to Nathan acting as the go-between between Harold and, well, the world in general.

Without Grace, it might have stayed that way. But Harold had insisted on the change. “You have to stay safe for each other,” he said, in a rare moment of candor. “It’s my turn to take the risk now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Privately, Grace thought, _'When do you not take the risk, Harold?'_ , but she kept that to herself.)


	6. a point is a place where two paths meet

_'I'm starting to hate hospitals,'_ Nathan thought.

 

The beep of the monitor attached to Harold seemed to fill the room. It was otherwise silent; Nathan and Grace hadn't bothered to turn on the TV.

They had been almost too late. A series of bad events and even worse decisions had culminated in Harold drugged, with his still healing injuries exacerbated.

Nathan had ended up with the burden of knowledge: that somewhere in Central Park was a mound of earth that he'd carved out himself in the dead of night, and that underneath that mound was the body of the man he'd buried there. Not that Dillinger's blood was on his hands, but the weight was on his shoulders, nonetheless.

Still, after what Dillinger had tried to do, Nathan couldn't muster the energy to harbor any sympathy for his fate. Maybe later, when it wasn't all so fresh. When it stopped _hurting_.

With no small amount of bitterness, Nathan recalled a time when he'd been the one to protect Harold. There was a chance that that had never been true, but Nathan certainly hadn't felt that way; he'd always thought of himself as the protector in their relationship.

How unkind of Harold to reveal otherwise, so late in the game.

The itch to find something alcoholic was strong -- he craved that familiar burn of whiskey, something that could help calm him down when little else helped. But right now, that craving paled before a greater need: simply staying close to the pale and vulnerable body of his best friend.

From her place across the hospital bed, Grace pulled in a shaky breath, hands worrying the edge of Harold's blanket. Nathan moved his chair to sit beside her, taking a closer look as he did. He'd thought she was simply worried, upset, but no.

She was furious.

"I thought we were past this, Nathan." She looked at him with barely suppressed rage, and he was struck with the most inappropriate thought.

_'My god, she's beautiful.'_

Maybe it was the way that she responded when her friends got hurt, as if the very idea were completely unacceptable and she was going to make it her mission to ensure that it never happened again. No matter how unrealistic that was.

Grace turned back to Harold, not done. "I thought we were in this _together_ , Harold. I'm going to be so mad at you when you wake up."

That was another thing. Grace might have been okay with Harold keeping secrets, but not the kind of secrets that would hurt him. She was far too concerned with their welfare to accept that kind of deal.

Because this wasn't the first time that Harold's secrets had gotten Harold hurt.

Early on in their relationship, Nathan had made an easy peace with his friend's need for privacy. Accepted that however close they might become, there were always going to be things that Harold might never share with him… and that was okay. But maybe he'd gotten a little _too_ complacent -- too used to letting sleeping dogs lie.

Maybe it was time to wake them up.

* * *

As much as Nathan and Grace had been horrified by Harold's ordeal, Harold… didn't feel much of anything. Should that have worried him? Truth be told, he wasn't sure. It was just… something that had happened.

Which didn't keep him from waking up in the night in a cold sweat, but that never seemed to be tied to anything specific. Near as he could recall, he wasn't having bad dreams, just trouble sleeping. And he didn't want to put much more thought into it.

Dillinger's death was regretful, of course, though Harold's reaction was somewhat muted by the recollection of what the operative had almost done to him. Whatever sedative he'd used had interacted badly with some of Harold's medication; it was only through sheer luck, and the Machine's efforts, that he sustained no permanent physical damage.

Briefly, Harold wondered if the Machine had seen what would happen with Dillinger. Had she known that Dillinger would betray them in the end? The Machine operated on statistics. Possibilities. It was quite likely that the possibility had been considered, but deemed unlikely to happen. At times Harold wondered just how much of his life the Machine calculated… and whether she would meddle in his life any more than Nathan or Grace could.

Harold shook his head, as if to clear away the errant thoughts. He'd sat down at his terminal for a reason. Instead of dwelling on the things that had happened, Harold took a page straight out of Nathan's playbook: He stuck his nose in someone else's business while completely ignoring his own problems.

On tonight's agenda, as he had been for the past few weeks, was the man who'd saved Daniel Casey when they couldn't.

John Reese.

Based solely on his file, Harold would have been terrified of encountering him. Now, however, he was nothing if not intrigued. He'd set about finding everything he possibly could about the CIA operative, using every ounce of his not inconsiderable skill; by now, he couldn't help himself. Each day he looked forward a little more keenly to those hours he'd spend combing through the digital record of one Agent John Reese, original name yet to be uncovered.

He'd shared all the facts and figures with his friends, at least in broad strokes, but he'd omitted a key detail, one that he didn't feel up to sharing yet. Not that he had to share it at all; it wasn't a detail about Agent Reese, but rather… how the growing body of evidence about the man was starting to affect Harold.

Harold was… well, he wouldn't say _love_. He was… intrigued. Infatuated.

…he had a silly little crush, and for all that it would go absolutely nowhere, Harold was delighted. He loved the butterflies in his stomach. The tingling at his fingertips. He'd never felt this way before.

Of course it was never going to go anywhere, there were so many reasons to think it was ludicrous and no reason _at all_ to think of any future between a ghost on the run from the U.S. government and an active agent _of that government_. It didn't even matter that Agent Reese was almost certainly attracted exclusively to women, and in love with one particular woman besides.

Harold felt what he felt, and there was nothing to be done about it.

So he didn't tell Nathan and Grace. Because, at worst, they might get alarmed at his lack of objectivity, and try to persuade him to avoid Reese altogether. And, at best… at best they'd humor him, and either way it'd bring him back down to earth, convince his system that it was being silly, and put an end to the feelings that he desperately wanted to hold on to, even if just for a little while longer.

Besides, he could be realistic. Even if Jessica weren't in the picture, the chance of Reese being attracted to men as well as women was pretty small, and the chance of any possible attraction toward Harold in particular? even less. Sometimes Harold wondered if he was just doomed to spend his life on the fringes. Alone. Born under an unlucky star.

But some sense of morbid curiosity made Harold go beyond digging into Reese's file, and start on his ex-fiancee, Jessica Arndt. If only to persuade himself that Reese was out of his league.

It hadn't taken him even an hour to bring in Nathan and Grace, because the evidence pointed to a single conclusion: Jessica was being abused.

With what the three of them had learned from working with Dillinger, they felt as if they were old hat at this now. They made plans to help her get away, waiting for an opportunity. When her number came up, as they knew it would, everything was ready.

 

Sometimes, Harold ended his day by bringing up a photo of Jessica, smiling and happy. Partly to remind himself that his daydreams about John Reese had to stay no more than daydreams. But also because he'd noticed something about the photos of Reese in the service: Reese never smiled. Not even a fake smile, the kind that didn't touch your eyes.

The only smile Harold could find was in a single photo of Reese with Jessica, one he'd managed to tease out of friendczar even though it was technically set to _friends only_.

So it helped him to think of a day when Reese could smile like that… a day when he'd be out of the service, and back to normal life. When maybe he'd be back with the woman he loved. A day when he'd be happy.

It was the kind of thought Harold focused on, when he needed a good thought to help him sleep. _Please, let John Reese find happiness again._


	7. Introduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Description of domestic abuse, though not too detailed.

"She died in the crash, I swear!" Peter cried out, never so thankful to be telling the truth in his life. The man in his house wasn't even touching him, just leaning up into his space, and yet there was something about him that just screamed _predator_.

 _Many_ things, really, but the most prominent of them all was the sheer volume of rage in his eyes. Peter Arndt was familiar with rage; he didn't put much effort into controlling his own temper unless they were in public or had guests over, but he knew it as explosive force, as yelling and storming about and breaking things. Hitting things -- sometimes wood and stone, other times flesh. Sometimes he'd regret his actions (though never enough to stop him the next time), but more often he enjoyed it, the way he could bring out that terror in Jessica's eyes. It made him feel darkly powerful.

But this man… this intruder. He was standing close enough to share breath, and he was filled to the core with rage hot enough to _blister_ … and yet it stayed inside him and wasn't pouring out. Peter could feel sweat beading on his forehead, his neck.

“We were on our way to the store,” he went on, voice shaking. “She forgot to buy milk. We were fighting about it, and this semi came out from nowhere.”

If the man didn't believe him, he was dead. There was no doubt in Peter's mind about that fact. The moment hung between them, and Peter licked his lips, barely daring to breathe.

The man's head lowered, his eyes going dead cold as he stared into Peter's soul.

“If you ever, in your life, lay your hand on another woman…” He drew out the pause, waiting for Peter to follow along. “I'll find out,” he concluded. “I'll come back. And I'll kill you.”

And just like that, he was gone. As if he'd never been there; as if he'd been a dream, a nightmare.

Except… the wedding video was still playing. The one Peter hadn't dared to touch since the night he'd lost Jessica.

Going to the police would be pointless; who would believe him? Nothing was taken from his house, no broken windows or forced locks.

Peter’s hands shook as he poured himself a strong drink. Maybe with enough alcohol, he’d forget this ever happened.

* * *

Whatever John had been expecting when he got back to Washington, back to Jessica, it hadn’t been this.

His first thought was the agency, that they’d somehow found out he was alive. But John had worked with their methods for too long to think that this was in any way their style.

If it had been a trap, they would have made sure that he knew she was alive. If it had been punishment, they'd have made sure he knew she was dead.

But this, this limbo of not knowing… John couldn’t understand it. Since he… had a chat with Peter Arndt, all signs had pointed to a single conclusion: Jessica was alive


	8. a monster in the subway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is my first attempt at a dark-ish John, everyone. i could barely wrap my brain around it...

The abandoned subway station was not the most welcoming place to Harold. It was cold, the air was always  damp, and all the stairs that he had to walk down in order to reach the area they used made his many and varied injuries ache.

Still, it was starting to feel comfortable. More than any of the residences his aliases occupied, the subway felt like home.

It had been a couple of days since they had helped Jessica leave Peter. Faking her death had been her idea. Harold had rather thought that the best divorce attorney his money could buy would have sufficed, but Jessica had insisted on it.

 

"I want to start over," she'd said, and that had been that.

 

The documents were easy enough to manufacture. Intelligence agencies would perhaps be able to tell that they were forgeries, but your average airport could not.

No, the most difficult part had been the car accident. As much planning as they did, there was a significant chance that there would be serious injuries. Nathan, who had been behind the wheel of the vehicle they would use to hit Jessica's escaped with a mild sprain, some cuts that bled dreadfully but were ultimately superficial, and nothing more. The occupants of the other car, Jessica and Peter, sustained even less damage.

Harold rubbed at his own injured neck, that nowadays couldn't turn more than twenty degrees on either side, and was thankful for small miracles.

 

"Aren't you coming. Harold?"

Harold jerked a little in surprise as he looked up from creating Jessica's birth certificate, distracted from his thoughts. He found the three other occupants of the subway standing at the exit with their coats on.

…it would not surprise him to learn that they had been trying to gain his attention for some time.

"We're going to McDonald's, want anything?"

Harold wrinkled his nose in distaste, what Nathan called his 'inner food snob' shining through. Grace laughed, which made Jessica smile. She really was a lovely woman. Very emphatic. She and Mr. Reese suited each other.

"Are you sure you'll be all right by yourself, Harold?" she asked, concerned.

_'Yes,'_ Harold thought to himself, _'they would make a wonderful couple.'_

He hadn't managed to check in on Mr. Reese in the last few days, busy as he was with creating the life Jessica was soon to inhabit. He made a mental note to make sure that he gave Jessica a way to contact him. Perhaps the both of them could start over.

... he wondered what their children would look like, and tried to ignore the way the butterflies in his stomach turned into lead weights at the thought.

Harold waved his hand, telling them to go on without him. Maybe bring back some coffee and doughnuts because there was a lot to be done, still. Jessica's flight would leave for Kentucky before lunch tomorrow.

Harold hummed to himself as he organized his files, waiting for the ink on the forged forms to dry. There was quite a bit to put away! For as long as Harold had been planning this, there were a lot of pictures and documentation of Jessica's daily routine taped to the walls of the Subway.

For someone who's life was never going to be the same ( _'and maybe'_ , Harold considered, _'that was a good thing,'_ ) Jessica was certainly in high spirits. She had even asked to take some of the pictures with her.

"You have a good photographer's eye," she'd told Grace, who had taken the photos.

 

It wasn't often that Harold felt this good about what they did. More often than not, it felt like trying to hold back the tide. Difficult, and ultimately pointless. No matter how many lives they saved, people were always going to kill each other. That was perhaps the price of free will. And the alternative, having the machine control everything, was equally unpalatable.

Yes, today was the rare day that Harold felt like they'd struck a good balance between the two.

 

And that was his last thought before everything went dark.

 

\---

 

John was not an CIA for nothing. More often than not, his orders were vague things, requiring his best judgement on the ground. It was only ever an issue when things went sideways, after the fact. Someone higher up on the chain of command not liking the results of something he'd ordered.

In short: John had good instincts. They'd kept him alive, and he trusted them in general. Instinct told him that Jessica was alive, so he followed them, ending up at this place.

 

John had a special fondness for abandoned places. He couldn't count the number of times they'd saved him, kept him hidden from people who wanted him dead or worse.

The abandoned subway station he'd found was something else, though. It didn't seem abandoned, so much as deliberately hidden from view. He could hear electricity humming in the walls, could see light shining up ahead.

 

A room, occupied. Male, middle-aged. Injured. It was child's play to John to stay out of the man's line of site as he puttered around, handling… paperwork?

There was something incongruously charming about it. John allowed himself a few moments to watch the man before directing his attention to the papers strewn about like so much oversized confetti. What he saw mad his blood run cold in a way he hadn't felt since the boy's down at Langley had finished training him.

 

Jessica. It was Jessica, her life written down in so many notes and reports. Pictures of her, obviously taken taken without her knowledge, meticulous notes about the details of her daily routine…

John kept looking, with more purpose now, and found a box beside the stairs. Inside the box were clothes, two sets, a man's and a woman's. Both torn in places, with blood on them.

John saw red.

 

\---

 

When Harold came to, it was with an unbearable headache. Even though pain and Harold were old friends at this point, that didn't mean pain was welcome. It took him long moments to get his bearings, and even then, he could tell he was a bit dizzy, a bit nauseated. Did he fall? Sustain a concussion?

But then he how he was sitting The way his limbs were bound to the chair he was sitting on. Harold's eyes sprang open, bowed head straightening up with more speed than was comfortable.

In front of him was John Reese.

Harold tried to speak, before realizing that his mouth had been _taped shut_. 

"What on earth are you doing here, Mr. Reese?" Harold blurted without considering the ramifications. Harold couldn't think straight. His head hurt, and he felt bewildered, confused.

"How do you know that name, Mr. Sparrow? Or should I say Tern? Maybe... Mr. Dove?

Harold could feel himself begin to shake. He'd felt safe here, safe enough to let the various accoutrements and paraphernalia of his many lives live together, in a way. John was holding Tern's passport, Dove's library card, receipt for a purchase made by Sparrow's credit card.

It hadn't occurred to him that anyone would find this place. At least, not before he could make a hasty escape.

"Who do you work for, Harold?"

"No one," Harold answered. "I'm--" he laughed, a touch hysterical, his thought process still muddled, "I'm just a concerned third party."

"Oh?" John's voice was soft. "And why were you concerned with _her_?"

He placed Jessica's picture in front of Harold. Understanding dawned, and despite still being tied to a chair, Harold was filled with relief. He wasn't here on behalf of the government!

A touch calmer now, Harold began explaining, with some modifications, what had happened. He omitted any mention of the Machine, Grace, or Nathan, yes, but he was confident that this misunderstanding was soon to be cleared up.

 

\---

 

 

John listened to the agent's outlandish story. It was some superb acting, really, the man missed his calling. He should have been an actor, not whatever he was right now.

He very carefully taped Harold's mouth shut before standing up. He watched blue eyes, that had relaxed somewhat, change. become tight with tension and fear. good. Harold should be afraid of him.

"Don't _lie_ to me, Harold."

John picked up a cutter from the desk. He was a bit surprised by its heft. He fiddled with it a little. Good balance. An expensive cutter, then.

Expensive suit, too.

By the time he had walked back to his struggling captive, John was starting to form a picture of what he must be like. That was necessary, John had found, in his line of work. One line of questioning that would render one person very talkative would just as soon make the next one bite their tongue off.

Maybe it didn't matter so much now. The bloodied clothes... Jess was dead. and John felt like he was on autopilot. There was a need to know why, why _her_ , but John knew better than most that there wasn't always a reason for death. Sometimes your number was just up, and it didn't matter why.

Once upon a time, it had been his job to find out what made his victim talk, before silencing them forever.

John Reese was very good at his job.

 

\---

 

 

Harold felt pain lance up his spine as he struggled to get away. He was securely bound, there was no _point_ in struggling, but he couldn't seem to _stop_.

John began by cutting off his tie. A maroon one, with subtle golden pinstripes. Harold had been quite fond of it. once it was off, John took a moment to hold the blade at Harold's throat, as if to say,

_Hello, look at this. it would be so easy to make a cut here, wouldn't it?_

Harold couldn't seem to control his body. He jerked in fear, a crimson line appearing before John could take the knife away, followed soon after by the tape.

"You know, I don't really care why you did this," John said, his voice soft, almost consoling despite the monotone.  "And I'm going to kill you for it either way.  I just want to know one thing, Harold. I want to know where she is.  What did you do with her body?"

"Please believe me, Mr. Reese, Jessica is going to walk through that door any--"

John taped his mouth shut once more.

 

\---

John watched with detachment as the man spewed more lies.

John ignored the way his gut clenched. He wanted so badly for that to be true that he almost believed his captive. _Almost_.

But no. John put away the part of him that felt almost sorry for Harold. Really, it was almost... disappointing. John didn't know why, but he had been hoping that there was a reason beyond madness.

He watched the man struggle, wondering if it would be a mercy to kill someone like this.

John knew a thing or two about madness. About being broken beyond repair. he put a hand on the scar on Harold's neck, and wondered what had broken Harold, such that what he chose to do with his not inconsiderable resources was _this_. Or had he been broken from the start, doomed by some twist of fate to be a monster?

John didn't think he'd feel such kinship with the person who killed Jess.

Oh well. It seemed like John would have to put down two rabid dogs, not just one.

 

\---

 

There was something terrifyingly _intimate_ about the way John handled him. He was careful in slicing off the clothes that Harold wore like armor. Tutting every time a cut appeared oh Harold's skin because of Harold's pointless struggles. John put a warm hand against his injured neck whenever Harold whimpered from the pain, and Harold felt a little ashamed as tears began to pool at the corner of his eyes.

When Harold was completely bare, but for his glasses, which he didn't know whether to be thankful for or not, John took a step back, surveying his handiwork. It was hard for Harold to reconcile this John with the one that had let Daniel Casey go. There was something missing from him right now. As if some light had been snuffed out inside him, and all that was left was a shadow given form.

It was a struggle, but Harold clung to that other John, not this facsimile in front of him. Harold was afraid now, truly afraid, not just for himself, but for John. There was every chance that John would come to regret what he was doing right now.

Even more distressing: if Harold breathed a word about the Machine, then he would be in danger. Always looking over his shoulder. John's chance at the life he could build with Jessica after all this was over would be completely erased, and Harold could bear it if that happened. Because Harold still wanted that for him. Wanted him to be safe. Harold wanted to be able to look in on a John who was happy and whole and with the woman he loved.

 If John could not accept the truth at this time (even the heavily edited version that Harold was willing to part with), then Harold would simply say _nothing_ , and hope for the best.

 

 


	9. hello and goodbye

John had never had an out of body experience before, but he imagined it felt a lot like this. Everything felt like it was moving through water, or something even thicker and more viscous. One minute, he was toying with his captive, relishing the fact that he'd started to cry, and in the next second, there was a blond man pointing a gun at him (stance good, if a little basic), and there was a woman with red hair scrambling to put her coat on Harold.

and Jess. Through it all, John only had eyes for Jessica.

She'd aged, was the first thing John noticed. Gracefully, but a little of her former fire had been extinguished. The little changes in a person that marked the passage of time were all there for him to see. But the biggest change was the fear. She was a little afraid of him now, having seen a small fraction of what he was capable of.

It wasn't surprising that they'd grown apart. But John was surprised to find that it still hurt.

* * *

Jessica looked at the man she used to love, and could hardly recognize him. There was a darkness in him now that, she just _knew_ in her heart of hearts, she couldn't touch. Without a doubt, she knew that John would have killed Peter if he had managed to kill her. Just as surely, Peter would have eventually killed her, had a miracle in the form of three unlikely heroes not occurred.

The easy and intimate connection they had made one last showing, letting them say what they needed to without words.

_I loved you. Goodbye._

* * *

John saw the fear in her eyes, and knew that he'd lost her forever… more likely, had never had her in the first place. What little time they'd managed to steal was a golden treasure in his head, because he'd wanted what they promised. A home, a family, the hope of children. Growing old together. Maybe he would have been happy with Jess if they'd made an honest go of it, had tried in earnest to make it work.

There was no way forward for them now. 

In a moment that seemed to last forever, their eyes met, and John knew that this time was the last time. He was finally letting her go. It felt a bit like dying; he wondered if she felt the same way.

Just a few minutes ago, John had been utterly convinced that she was gone. Now he was losing her all over again, but she was alive. _alive_. And that was a weight lifted from John's soul. And John… he'd just tried to kill the person who'd saved her.

As he stood there, statue-still, the red-haired woman helped Jess pack up her belongings while the blond man explained what they'd done. Even though they owed him nothing, _nothing_ , they stopped to explained what had happened, and John listened, all skepticism gone.

What had looked to him like an abduction had been a rescue mission. An escape plan. They'd helped Jessica in a way that John hadn't managed to do, saved her when he couldn't be there for her. Now, they were helping her leave Peter, building her a life for her where she could start again.

Like a veil being lifted, John finally understood what he'd almost done. Caught up in rage over Jessica's death and self-loathing that he had failed her yet again, he'd focused on Harold as some sort of monster given human shape; his time in the service had brought him face to face with more than enough examples of evil. But Harold was no monster, quite the opposite. And with dawning horror, John was forced to accept the truth: There was only one monster here in this room. And that… that was easy enough to remedy. Permanently.

Some of that must have shown up on his face, because, instead of doing literally anything else, Harold walked right up to him, placing an hand on his shoulder. He should have looked ridiculous, in a coat that was clearly too small, but the sight of him alive was like a balm to John's spirit.

He hadn't manged to kill this one. Whether by hand of fate or stroke of luck, here was someone the world needed, and John hadn't managed to take him away.

"Are you okay, Mr. Reese? you seem… troubled. I hope that's not on my account." He shrugged. "You simply ruined a suit, of which I have a great many more, and you gave me some uncomfortable paper cuts. No harm done."

A smile that was trying too hard, and a flinch when John shifted on his feet, but it was undeniable.

Harold was… trying to make him feel better.

 _Unbearable._ It was unbearable to be given that much kindness, after what he'd done. He didn't _deserve_ it. Yet here was Harold, offering it up like it was nothing to him. Maybe it was. Maybe there were still people who exuded light that way John did darkness. 

John turned on his heel and left the subway without a word. He'd tainted this place, these people, enough. He had a date with the Brooklyn Bridge. Or more accurately, the cold water beneath it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol, John had a whole face journey of exactly one emotion and is already overwhelmed. XD


	10. chase

 

 

"Mr. Reese!"

Even in the middle of bustling Manhattan, John would recognize that voice anywhere. How could he not? He'd just heard it _screaming_ for the better part of an hour, begging him to just _listen to me, I'm telling you the truth--_

He looked back to see Harold jogging a bit to catch up with him. Immediately, John stopped. With a neck injury like that, as well as what had looked like a hip injury, even just walking was probably hard enough on a good day, never mind after the ordeal John had just put him through.

John began walking back, swiftly, closing the distance between them. Whatever he wanted to say, he could. If he had come to his senses, and wanted to punch scream, kick, John would let him. John owed him that much and more. And nothing he said would change anything, anyway. John was a monster that needed to be put down, and that was that.

As Harold approached, John could see that he hadn't managed to put any clothes on. He was covered almost from head to toe in the blond guy's coat, except John could see glimpses of bare skin on his legs.

_'Crazy_ , _'_ John thought, with no small amount of fondness, but also worry. _'Absolutely crazy,'_

 

\---

 

Harold was mortified, absolutely and completely. He was traipsing around New York in just a coat. Like some kind of, of _flasher_. It was _indecent_.

Harold wondered if the people around them could tell that all he had on was a coat. Well, two coats. When Harold had started after the agent, Nathan had put a hand on his shoulder, and Harold had been afraid that his friend would try to stop him. Instead, he'd offered his own coat, and Harold had been too grateful to question it at the moment.

John was looking at him expectantly, and once he realized Harold was wearing only coats, looked at Harold like he was insane. Maybe Harold was. After all, he'd just come chasing after his torturer, hadn't he? Except... Harold knew more about Mr. Reese than was probably healthy, knew everything he'd done in what he thought was service to his country, and Harold knew that Mr. Reese was capable of much, much worse. He had _done_ much worse. And really, all of most of Harold's injuries were his own fault, for not being calm when he was the one who had the whole picture, and not working under an incorrect assumption.

Before Harold could say anything, Mr. Reese bustled them into an empty alley, away from prying eyes and ears. Now, Harold was mentally prepared for a good many things that Mr. Reese could have said, had a number of explanations in the chamber ready to fire. But Mr. Reese managed to surprise him, still.

"Are you crazy?"

Harold was taken aback. He hadn't expected that, and struggled to come up with a response. John, undeterred went on.

"It's barely five degrees right now, what are you doing following me?"

"No, I'm not crazy," Harold began, although he was seriously beginning to have his doubts. "I know everything about you, Mr. Reese. And I don't think it would be good for you to be alone right now."

It seemed like John was similarly unprepared for what Harold said, although he coudn't fathom why, Harold thought his reply was very easy to understand and got to the point.

"I don't want to hurt anyone else," John eventually replied.

Honestly, Harold could relate. When he'd been building the machine, he'd been so, so afraid that it was a mistake. That people were going to get hurt because of him. He still was.

"You won't hurt anyone," Harold said simply, "Not in the next few minutes, at least. Please, come back to the subway."

Harold shivered a bit as a gust of wind blew through the alley. Harold had never been so thankful that Nathan's coat buttoned almost all the way down.

John nods almost immediately after that, which Harold thought was strange. He'd thought that John would need more convincing, but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

On the way back, John draped his own coat over Harold. And it absolutely shouldn't, but it settled something in him, to be wrapped up in the scent of Grace, Nathan, and John, all at once.

 

\---

 

So they go back, and John is sort of numb and just sits there while they help jess create a new life for herself. and then she says goodbye, and John knows it's for good this time, and goodbye kiss, and she's gone, with the woman who had introduced herself as Grace and the man she'd called Nathan.

Nathan, John was already judging a little, for leaving Harold with him

John couldn't believe it. How could he leave his smaller friend with someone who had just tried to kill him? Bringing the gun, no less. John considered that maybe Harold had weapons on his person now, having changed into a shirt and sweats that clearly belonged to the blond, but dismissed it as unlikely.

he doesn't seem like the type, John thought.

The man in question, Harold, turned to John. There was something... fearless about him. The way he looked at John, he knew what John was capable of. And John thought he wasn't naive enough to trust John, to believe that the agent wouldn't hurt him. No, this was a man who knew perfectly well who he was dealing with, and he wasn't afraid.

(It would take John months to figure it out, but it was at this moment that he'd decided to tie this life to this man. To this mission it appeared he and his (find another word for friends) had dedicated their lives to. John would turn the thought over in his head, and find that it was what he wanted as well. All he'd ever wanted was to help people, and now a universe he thought was cold and uncaring had dropped the opportunity on his lap.)


	11. the cure for what ails you is hair of the dog that bit you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeskip! This is a few days later, and John has been living in the subway like a stray cat.

John didn't know how it exactly happened, but he was living in the subway now. Or at least, that was where spent his time. He didn't really... do anything, and it seemed that the three people who frequented the subway were somehow okay with having a mostly silent observer underfoot.

It was calm for the next few days. They brought him food, and it made John feel guilty. He was perfectly capable of finding that himself, but for the fact that he absolutely did not want to do anything of the sort. Vaguely, he hoped that they would change their base of operations soon. He had thoroughly compromised this one, and John could only imagine that they would be glad to be rid of it.

Once they left, John would stay, and if he didn't move at all, maybe he would just... disappear. It was only now sinking in that he had nothing. The Agency had been his life, and without it, he felt... adrift.

 

\---

 

"Are you sure it's okay to have him there?" Nathan said around a cup of coffee. With no number at the moment, he was helping Harold shore up a few of his less intensive covers, and the two of them had stopped for a quick break in the park."

"Of course, Nathan," Harold said around his own cup of tea. "The CIA thinks he's dead, some business about an explosion in China."

"You know that's not what I'm talking about. He tortured you," Nathan glared at his bespectacled friend.

"I tortured myself by not behaving logically," Harold said nonchalantly, as if he wasn't spouting absolute garbage, "I knew he wasn't going to do any lasting damage before you came back. If I had only been more calm, I'm sure Mr. Reese would have done far less damage tan he did."

Nathan's clearly daft friend brought up his arm pushing up his sleeve where a cut was healing.

"See, almost gone. And they're pretty much all like this or even smaller."

Nathan didn't bother to look at the proferred arm, instead glaring at his friend. It was either that or murder Harold himself.

"Dammit, you behaved like a human person who was afraid and you absolutely did not know any such thing."

Harold made a face. "Well, technically, statistically speaking--"

"Bull _shit_ , Harold."

"Look, Nathan, I'm fine--"

"No, you're _not_ , just _look_ at you."

"I'm _fine._ "

 

\---

 

Harold was _not_ fine. What Harold hadn't told Nathan, hadn't told  _anyone_ , was that he _was_ having nightmares.

And he hated it. 

Hoping to put an end to it, Harold decided to spend a night at the subway. Exposure therapy.

Night came, and Harold felt sad as he got ready for bed in the cot they had for emergencies. Since Harold had arrived, John had stayed almost comically away. It was a pity; Harold had imagined many scenarios for them going forward, but he hadn't considered one where John would be afraid to be in the same room.

 

\---

 

John paced the subway, unable to sleep. He could hear Harold making noises in the other room

It was hell

When John heard shifting, he felt as if he had no choice but to check up on the sleeping man, afraid that Harold was going to hurt himself struggling while he was asleep

"Harold, wake up," John placed a single hand on Harold's shoulder.

"Mr. Reese?" Harold asked groggily, still half asleep. 

John expected a scream, a flinch, _something_. A fear reaction, certainly, Being woken up from a nightmare by the object of your nightmares was no one's idea of a good night.

But instead, Harold visibly relaxed, letting out a breath.

"It's you," Harold said. Like it was a good thing and not a nightmare made real.

Not saying a word, John continued to stand there, looming menacingly beside the bed, watching as Harold fell back into an easier sleep.

 John didn't leave Harold's side for the rest of the night.

 

\---

 

"I'm so sorry, Mr Reese, to have disturbed you last night."

"What happened there? Most people tend to not react that way when faced with their torturer."

The _I know this from experience_ remained unspoken.

"I tortured myself, Mr. Reese. And I believe I told you not to trouble yourself further regarding that unfortunate incident."

Harold left before either of them could say more.

The truth was, he'd felt better seeing John at his bedside, because it reminded him that the John in his nightmares didn't exist, and that the real one did. 

 

\---

 

John's continued presence was a mystery to Harold.

"Why hasn't Jessica called John?" He asked Grace one day.

"Harold," she said, "I think they already said their goodbyes at the subway."

Harold didn't quite know what to make of that, knowing only that he felt vaguely heartbroken.

 

\---

 

John was not unobservant. That Harold was starting to look even worse was obvious to everyone, and no one knew what to do about it.

It was an easy decision for John to follow Harold home.

 

\---

 

Harold was so relieved at Mr. Reese showing signs of life that he didn't even mind.

"Come in, Mr. Reese," he called out into the darkness as soon as he arrived at his destination. Dutifully, a dark shadow slinks to his side.

"Who's house is this?" John asked

"This is Harold Crane," Harold introduced.

That night, Harold had another nightmare. But once again, John was there, and Harold finally managed to get some rest

 

\---

 

Harold asked him not to follow him home today. As a result, John was bored. On a whim, He followed Nathan and Grace home.

He wasn't sure if he expected them to invite him in, but they did, and he accepted the invitation.

"This is our only house I'm afraid," Grace said over dinner.

John nodded, and asked what the deal was with the numbers. 

"What agency are you working for?"

"We'll have to talk with Harold first," Nathan replied

John was okay with that. He wanted to know, but if they didn't want to tell him, that's was okay too.

John was... okay.


	12. Fitting in

They told John the truth over breakfast in the subway. As they ate eggs and doughnuts and bacon, the three of them laid the whole thing out for him: the Machine, the three of them on the run, their shared mission. How close they'd come to being revealed to the government by trying to help Daniel Casey, who had brought John (and therefore Jessica) into their orbit.  
  
When they'd told Grace, she'd pretty much just rolled with it.  By contrast, John was _floored_. He told them he was a little in awe of what they'd managed to do so far, but also,

"How have you survived this long?"

Grace laughed at the affronted expression on Harold's and Nathan's faces. They looked like cats whose tails had been stepped on, offended by the insinuation that between the two rich computer programmers, they didn't really know how to run a secret spying / super hero organization.

Grace loved them _so much_.

\---

After that conversation, there was almost no question that John would help them with the numbers. Harold had offered a small (somewhat baffling) objection, that maybe John should leave them and go have a normal life. To this, John had replied that this _was_ his normal. He'd been an agent for more than a decade. And he was _good at it_.

Once he got started, John -- the professional -- was utterly _ruthless_ in pointing out all the problems with their setup, and how amateurish they really had been. How a lot of their success had been just luck, not skill, and how their luck was bound to break.

This, Grace thought, was when Nathan really started to warm up to him. Nothing got you into her husband's good graces like competence, even if meant dressing them down a bit. She couldn't quite remember if Nathan had told her about it, but she imagined that this was how he'd met Harold.

 

\---

 

It had been John's idea to move from their base of operations from the subway. He'd insisted that it was too isolated, with too few exit points. A better place wouldn't just be hidden, but be hiding in plain sight. And Nathan had agreed, finding them a wonderful abandoned library nearby. Even Harold, who had quite liked the subway, begrudgingly approved.

That wasn't the end of John's ideas. He wanted mission reports, check ins. A way to make sure that the machine could contact them at all times. At some point, Grace thought he mentioned a rotation schedule for something.

Grace had thought it was all very reasonable, but Harold resisted making them like the government in any way.

"The government wanted to kill you, Nathan, after what you did for them. Why on earth would we want to be like them?"

Grace hadn't really expected Nathan to back John up so vehemently, but he did.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, Harold, but use your brain, okay? Think about it for more than a second, and tell me that the changes Mr. Reese wants to make won't save more lives and keep us safer."

Harold didn't exactly keep his opinions to himself after that, but Grace could tell that he was trying to control that knee-jerk reaction.

 

\---

 

John kept himself busy, to keep himself from waiting for the other shoe to drop. It wasn't that he didn't believe them. It was just that things were good, and good things never lasted. Not for John.

So he braced himself for the inevitable, and tried his best to prepare them, in his own way.

Since Harold and Nathan seemed to already have a good handle on having multiple identities and covers, on John's itinerary was making them more physically fit.

Nathan took to it like a fish to water. From what they'd told him (and what he'd managed to ascertain, on his own time, for no nefarious reason, just idle curiosity), Nathan had been the front for IFT, one of the biggest computer software development and hardware manufacturing companies in the world.

He used to be one of those high-powered CEO types with a personal trainer, and it showed in the the exercises he knew, and how he did them. From what John could tell, he was more fit than average, but most of his muscles were there for form, not function. Something John would have to change.

(If John enjoyed putting Nathan through hell, well, that was just his secret, wasn't it? It was just so  _fun_ to listen to Nathan gripe, sweat pouring down his forehead, because "I'm not _joining_ the _army_ John, _jesus christ,_ ")

(and if John enjoyed replying that, telling him to "Suck it up, Nathan. You want to do legwork, you're going to have to keep up with me.", well, there was no harm in that, right?)

Whenever they had time between numbers, this was what John and Nathan did. Spend time specifically targeting Nathan's weaknesses, and maybe working on his flexibility and reflexes, and his ability to shift gears.  John trained Nathan with guns too, to Harold's disgust. Or, well, perhaps disgust was the wrong word. Harold wasn't disgusted by guns, he just didn't  _like_ them. 

(Which is why it surprised John to learn that Harold was actually a pretty good shot.)

But for all that Nathan was eager, Harold was nearly the opposite. Simply convincing him that he needed to do rehab _properly_ , and couldn't just accept having a body that was more handicapped than it needed to be, was more of an ordeal than John thought it would be.

Harold was the worst about it, and for the life of him, John couldn't really figure out why. He didn't use his injuries to get out of it, which John appreciated, but there was always something else he had to do.

"Oh, I’m sorry, have to defrag some hard drives today. Tomorrow is no good either, I have to build up this one alias. The day after that? ...I have to do a thing?"

Really, John would be annoyed if he didn't find it so adorable

In his trials with Harold, John had found Grace to be an invaluable asset. By hook or by crook, she managed to get Harold into the gym that John had set up in one of the libraries' empty rooms. She had a way about her that he admired, and privately thought she would have also made an excellent doctor. Firm, but not unpleasant. She was a natural at making people comfortable, some thing John had taken years to master. 

"You have resting serial killer face, John, you have to work on that," she'd told him once, smiling. John hdan't had the heart to tell her that his resting expression was something they'd drilled into him as well.

Working with her was the easiest, John had found. As someone who wasn't on the front lines, so to speak, she didn't require as much work as Nathan.  And she wasn't quite as reticent as Harold. She'd gamely tried to poke his eye out when he showed them how (as opposed to Harold, who had shied away, and asked John to stop _._ )

It was an adjustment for John, to not think of himself as expendable. The way they treated him was... not the way he was used to being treated. Suddenly, he was a person now, not just an asset, expected to live a full, multifaceted life, of which saving the numbers is certainly a large part, but  not the only part. 

He didn't quite have the hang of it yet. He went to the park to play chess and called it a day.

 


	13. I bring you things because

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another time skip! Bigger this time, this is probably a few months later. :P

 

Morning light streamed in through the windows of the library. In one of the rooms they had converted for use, Grace, Harold, and Nathan sat having breakfast as they usually did on weekends. Or rather, they sat waiting to have breakfast, waiting for John to show up.

He was on his way, he'd said when Grace had called. He'd just had an errand to run.

Harold thought it was strange. One of the things he liked about John was that he was very punctual, so this was a very curious aberration. 

"Do you think it has something to do with the yesterday's number?" Grace wondered out loud. Harold felt the corners of his mouth tug down.

Yesterday's number had featured Neo-Nazis, thoroughly unpleasant people, and a number named Leon Tao, who was perfectly pleasant, if remarkably unfortunate to have been employed by Neo-Nazis, and who had _not stopped flirting with John the entire time_.

Harold could feel the frown on his face deepen, but he couldn't help himself. As Grace and Nathan fell into easy conversation, Harold continued to stew. He knew he had no claim over John. And the fact that John had not expressed a negative reaction to being hit on only revealed that he was not homophobic, really, not that he was in any way interested in men.

But still. The infatuation that Harold thought would die a quick death once they began working together (and certainly when John mad him go to the gym and _sweat_ ) still lived in his foolish, hopeful heart.

It was torture yet again. And once again, Harold had only himself to blame. (and if he's perfectly honest, he doesn't want it to ever stop).

 

\---

 

John had called this room "the breakfast room" when they were first making the Library habitable. A little sardonically, of course. In all his life, he'd never lived in a place with a breakfast nook. And to be fair, he didn't live in a breakfast-nook-having place right now. The loft that Nathan had presented him with had an open plan, after all.

But still. So much of John's life had changed. It was hard to imagine going back to the life he'd had a few months prior, and he was loathe to disrupt it for any reason.

This wasn't just any reason.

He entered the room, metaphorical hat and literal leash in hand. Tardiness was not how he wanted this to begin, but there was nothing to be done about it now. He took in Grace and Nathan turning to see him. They were smiling, chatting. Good. Harold, on the other hand, was frowning pensively as he stared at his empty plate. Oh. They'd waited for him before eating. Not Good.

 

However, the moment he saw Harold register his presence, the bespectacled man's expression cleared. It was like watching the sun break through the clouds. John could feel his heart skip a beat.

"What took you so long, we're _starving_ ," Nathan asked, not looking at him anymore. Now that everyone was here, he was free to tuck into the food, which he did with much enthusiasm.

Wordlessly, John walked up to Harold, placing the leash in his hand before walking away to hang up his coat and scarf.

 

\---

 

Harold looked down at the leash in his hand. He'd been too preoccupied with John to notice that he's had something in his hand.

Or some _one_ , as it turned out.

Bear, as John introduced, was a military trained dog he had rescued from the Neo-Nazis yesterday.

"He'll keep you company when we're out dealing with the number, Harold," John said, taking an _awfully_ long time to hang up one coat and one scarf.

"He doesn't look like much of a conversationalist." Harold said, watching Grace pet the beast with much gusto. 

"Maybe not," John conceded, beside Harold's chair all of a sudden, "But if anyone messes with you, he'll eat them."

From across the table, Nathan snorted, making a comment about Harold taking in strays. Understanding what his friend was insinuating, Harold told Nathan to kindly go jump off a cliff. John sat down in the chair they'd left empty for him as Grace continued to be too busy petting Bear to be bothered. 

(She isn't quite as pleased with him when he eats a paintbrush she had broken in _just right_ , though.)

 

 


	14. hello again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place right after Number Crunch
> 
> also, sorry for the super short chapter, and the too long author's note XD

Despite how smoothly things were going, it was inevitable that they would make a mistake. A stray fingerprint left at too many crime scenes where the picture didn't quite add up meant that there was a cop chasing the Man in the Suit now. Which, honestly, John could handle. The CIA knowing he was alive though, and caring enough to send Mark after him, he was less certain of.

The only positive John could see was that he was the only one to pay the price this time.

"I swear, Mr. Reese, if you ever instruct us to leave you again, I'll find you and murder you myself."

Harold, as he'd made and continued to make abundantly clear, didn't quite share that opinion. John smiled from is place on the bed as Harold flitted about like his namesake birds.

Grace and Nathan were out handling another number, leaving John to languish in his loft. John had expected them to tell him to rest, visit occasionally, and he'd be back on the job before too long.

Instead, Harold had practically moved in, spending too much time making sure John was as comfortable as can be, going above and beyond.

Currently, he was extolling the virtues of a round pillow with a hole in it like a doughnut that John should definitely use.

(He won't.)

"It really does help," Harold was saying, perched on the side of the bed where John was propped up on an ungodly number of pillows. "This gap right here," he indicated the hole, "relieves pressure on the tailbone, making the wheelchair, well, not a pleasant experience, but certainly more comfortable."

John made a sound, urging Harold to keep talking. Between Harold's voice and the medicine he'd just taken, John could feel his eyelids become heavier and heavier.

"I used one myself," Harold went on, "When the incident with the yacht led to my own injuries. Yours won't lead to such long term damage, fortunately..." Harold kept talking.

Hazily, John remembered what he knew about 'The Yacht Incident', as the three of them referred to it. Harold had risked death to ensure that Nathan and Grace could leave their old identities behind, and start over.

John couldn't help himself. It felt like he'd lost control of his limbs, and was merely watching his arms and hands move, pulling Harold in for a kiss. Harold's lips were a bit thin, that was no surprise, but so soft that it didn't really matter.

He pulled back when Harold didn't respond, sighing softly.

 _'Oh well, at least I tried,_ ' John thought, forcing cheer where the was none. When it felt like his heart was breaking.

He wasn't really afraid that Harold would be angry with him. And he was sure that their friendship would survive a period of awkwardness.

No, what hurt the most was closing another door, with the life he was sometimes too afraid to imagine behind it. Behind that door was more kisses like this, Harold being his, being _Harold's_.

Except it had never really been a door, had always been a wall, and he was just the schmuck too stupid to keep from banging his head against it.

"Listen, Harold, this doesn't have to--" John started.

And was cut short when Harold kissed him back.

Though, perhaps calling it a kiss was overly generous, when Harold didn't so much as _kiss_ John as he simply... pushed their faces together. It was awkward, the seam of Harold's lips had no give, were pressed together tight, and his jaw was clenched, allowing John no tongue access _at all_.

It was still the best thing that had ever happened to John, maybe even to anyone ever in the history of the world, and John wanted it to never end.

 

\---

 

Harold pulled back, mortified. He'd kissed and been kissed maybe twice in his entire life, and it showed. He thought he might have cut a lip on his own teeth.

Though, Harold considered, maybe he hadn't done _too_ badly. Johns had a vaguely dazed look on his face, like he'd been caught between a smile and a sneeze.

He looked ridiculous. Harold started to smile, but froze when he caught sight of the pills on the bedside dresser.

Dear god, John wasn't in his right mind, was he? Was Harold taking advantage of someone experiencing the side effects of strong medication? Forcing his own attraction on someone who, by all indications, was straight and possibly still heartbroken?

Harold scrambled off the bed, off John, not wanting to find out. At least, not tonight, when he'd just come so close to losing John. He rushed towards the first door he saw like the coward he was, looking to make a quick escape.

Unfortunately, the door lead only to a closet. Harold contemplated the dark, enclosed space he found himself in and didn't at all appreciate the fact that his life had become a farce.

"Harold? Please don't make me tear out my stitches going after you, come back," came John's voice through the door, interrupting Harold's downward spiral.

Harold had a bit more dignity than to peek out, like an errant school child. Barely. He exited the closet with as much dignity as he could, making his way back to John's bedside.

Mr. Reese was much more alert now, eyes shining bright and clear as he looked at Harold. There was an expression on his face that Harold couldn't quite parse.

Harold opened his mouth to say something, but he never really got to find out what it was, because what came out was

"Do you want to have sex?"

And if John looked startled, Harold could only imagine what his own face was doing right now. Really, he should throw himself out of John's sizable windows before embarrassment did the job of killing him properly--

But then John started to laugh.

It was a wonderful, rare thing, John's laugh. Harold thought that the man he was now was a far cry from the gaunt, haunted thing that had come hunting after Jessica, but Harold thought of him as melancholy by nature.

He was sorry to have ever thought it now, because smiling transformed John's face into a thing of pure joy. It was  _infectious_ , and Harold could feel himself smiling back in response.

"You don't do anything halfway, do you," John stated more than asked, before becoming overcome with another bout of laughter. From where he was standing, Harold couldn't see someone being taken advantage of. Only someone very much laughing at his expense.

"Don't you think we should wait until we at least go on a date first?" John asked when he'd calmed down. "I think I'm a bit too banged up at the moment."

Harold, afraid to open his mouth again lest he say something idiotic again, nodded hard enough to make his neck ache a little.

John pulled Harold into the bed beside him, falling asleep almost immediately, with Harold following soon after.

(This is how Nathan and Grace will find them in the morning. Nathan will express relief because _finally_ , and Harold will volunteer, completely without prompting, that he and Mr. Reese did _not_ have sex. Grace will tell Harold that "You'll get it next time,"

But for now, they slept.

 

\---

 

Harold being Harold, He insisted that they talk everything over soon after. Just to make sure that everyone was on the same page, so to speak. Instead of being apprehensive, as he understood most people were, John was thoroughly charmed.

Harold's surprise was visible when John told him that he'd had sex with men before. He hadn't been in a relationship with them, exactly, but the army, John informed Harold, was good for that kind of thing. What Harold understood was that John hadn't really given the matter of being straight or not much thought, as he'd only ever fallen in love with women before. A singular woman, actually.

So they decided to take things slow, much to the exasperation of Grace and Nathan, who had been married less than a year of meeting each other. Due to the difficulty and frequency of the numbers that followed, John and Harold's first official date was almost a month after. Nathan gave them a hard time about it.

"Maybe you'll make it to second base by next year," he joked, like the eleven year old he so clearly still was on the inside.

John didn't mind. He'd been sending signals to Harold that he was healed, and was definitely up for more, but so far, Harold hadn't responded. Maybe he just wasn't interested in sex? John wondered if this was something they had to have another conversation about.

(Regardless, John was almost unbearably happy. Between saving the number's and this, he thought he could be forgiven for not remembering to bring it up.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John: *makes an airplane runway in the loft with condoms, pointed at his crotch*
> 
> Harold: ...you want to snuggle? ^u^


	15. The Last Temptation of John Reese

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeskip again! Follows immediately after the Jordan Hester episode where Harold gets roofied or smth

John walked to Harold's part of the library as quickly as he could. Not rushing, no. He trusted Nathan to take care of Harold. But still. He was worried.

"John," Harold's voice carried through the empty halls. John walked a bit faster.

"Sit, John. I wanna have a _sit_."

John arrived to Harold trying to push an amused Nathan down on a sofa.

Nathan responded by putting his hands on Harold's shoulder's, telling Harold (for what must have been the umpteenth time) that he was _Nathan_ , not John.

When Nathan wouldn't go down, Harold fixed him with an unsteady glare.

" _John,_ " Harold said with authority, " _Move._ "

John moved.

 ---

 

 

 ---

"Harold, I'm over here." he said, picking up a blanket from the couch as he walked towards them.

Harold turned towards him, a mild smile on his face.

"John, you're here!" he echoed, soft but happy. John handed him the blanket, something to occupy him while John had a quick conversation with Nathan. John tried not to let the sight of Harold cuddling the folded blanket like a plush toy distract him.

They'd already had this conversation while John was on the way over. Nathan had already taken Harold to Dr. TIllman to be looked over. She'd been worried at first, but after taking some tests, had been confident that the drugs Harold ingested would be gone from his system in a few hours.

John nodded at Nathan, giving him a sign that he could leave now, John had things under control. Harold would be safe in John's care.

 

 ---

 

 

\---

 

Once Nathan was gone, John turned his attention to Harold, who seemed happy enough petting his blanket, not even noticing that Nathan had left. The agent weighed his options.

Should he deliver Harold to the home of one of his aliases? Bring him back to the loft? Truth be told, John didn't want Harold leaving the Library tonight. Not when he was so vulnerable. Defenseless. Now that the mission was over, the fear he'd felt when he heard Harold being drugged by that woman was rushing back. It was offset by the site of Harold standing in front of him, swaying on the spot with a smile on his face, but not by a lot.

John came to a decision.

"Stay right here, Harold, I'll be right back."

John was already around the corner, intending to prepare the room where they kept the bed, when he heard Harold's voice, was stopped by his plaintive words.

"You're leaving?"

John turned back. He was perfectly capable of fixing the room with a drugged Harold underfoot. Right.

 

\---

 

The sheets on the break room's bed hadn't been changed since John last used it. There was still a bit of blood on it. John hadn't thought it was a big deal, but Harold had made a face when he'd seen it, hand tightening on John's sleeve.

John changed the sheets.

He managed to make the room acceptable, but it wasn't easy with a Harold who was suddenly clingier than ever. All pliant and soft and wanting to snuggle.  John allowed the contact, enjoyed it even, until Harold started talking.

Not the usual Harold talking. From Harold, John had heard all about the history of hotels, the statistics of baseball, even the challenges of measuring time on a global scale.

Right now, however, Harold was talking about sex. What he wanted to do to John, what he wanted John to do to him.

_How he'd never done any of it before._

Shamefully, it was that last part that turned the half-hard erection John had been sporting into a fully hard one.

There was a part of John, well-hidden from view, that was possessive in the extreme. He sublimated it of course, turning it into the energy that fueled his need to protect. But that possessive part of him was purring right now, positively _delighted_ that Harold would be his and his alone.

While the rational, _sane_ part of John didn't exactly _disagree_ , he was determined that Harold's first time not be some half-remembered affair that took place under the influence of drugs. Not that he would let that happen, even if Harold _was_ experienced, but it was certainly an incentive.

(The romantic in John was already planning it out. Would Harold appreciate flowers? Would he think candles were overdone? Should they do it at the loft, for more comfort, or somewhere more unusual, more special?)

It had occurred to John that maybe he should leave Harold alone while he was in this state. He would, John decided. He'd leave the room and only peek in to check on Harold's condition, as soon as he finished making it up to Harold's standards. Which were apparently much more exacting than John had been led to believe.

It made John wonder how much Harold did that. Filter his initial impulses, to become more accommodating, more _palatable_ , to the people around him. John wondered how else Harold filtered his initial impulses around John. Other than wanting things to be a bit cleaner, and of course, the apparently _very_ well hidden desire for sex...

John was distracted from his thinking by Harold falling into him, trying to take off his shoes without sitting down, trying to get ready for bed. John tried to assist him as much as he could. Harold was a bit clumsy, a bit distractible, as he tried to figure out bedtime while drugged.

John was completely fine with helping until Harold just stripped his pants off. Obviously meaning to get into the old gym clothes that John had provided, except John was already on the edge; he didn't think the sight of Harold's bare legs were something he could handle right now.

He turned to go, and was halfway out the door, when Harold came stumbling after him with no pants on. It reminded John almost _painfully_ of their first meeting. Harold in the street with no clothes on. It was something to playfully joke about now, a kind of macabre humor. Quite similar to joking about 'the yacht incident'. But still. Knowing more about Harold now than he did then, John could better appreciate what it had cost Harold, a deeply private man, to walk out into the street with only a coat for protection. 

It made John want to be brave too. Even if, in this case, 'brave' just meant staying to help Harold with bedclothes. It was maybe a bit of a breach for John to see Harold naked at this stage of their relationship, but John weighed that against Harold's comfort, and the latter won.

 

\---

 

John sat in the bathroom alone, cock in hand, wondering how it had come to this. Helping Harold dress, while not being allowed to touch him, would have been excruciating under normal circumstances. Doing it while Harold was begging John to touch him, trying with uncoordinated hands to redirect John's own to the more, uh, _interesting_ places on Harold's body was more than John could bear.

As soon as Harold was on the bed ( _fully dressed, thank god_ ), John had fled to the bathroom like the coward he was. Trying very hard not to think about Harold spreading his legs, seated on the edge of the bed. How John had needed to push them together to get the sweatpants on him.

John bit his lip, trying not to remember the way Harold had shivered at the soft cotton of John's clothes against his skin, before abruptly giving up, pulling out his cock more roughly that was absolutely necessary.

(If he glared at it, like it was the source of all his problems, well, that was between him and his cock, wasn't it?)

John let himself be as indulgent as he wanted, needing to finish quickly. He thought about having Harold beneath him, soft and warm, making sweet little gasps as John touched him wherever he pleased...

John washed his hands before leaving the bathroom.

* * *

"I'm clean now," Harold announced as he left the bathroom.

"That's great, Harold," John murmured sleepily in reply. He was lying down on his side of the bed (always the one closer to the nearest exit),  _above_ the covers, to prevent any funny business.

He was just falling back to sleep when Harold falls down on his chest, knocking the breath out of him.

"I mean my butt, John," Harold explained, and John's eyes shot open.

Suddenly, he was wide awake again.

"W-what," John managed to choke out, extricating himself from beneath Harold.

"My butt is clean now. I cleaned it because I want us to have sex," Harold explained, like he wasn't blowing John's mind right now.

John's traitorous cock didn't even have the courtesy to just twitch with interest. John could practically feel the blood rushing from his face as blood rushed downwards.

He was hard again. Fuck.

As Harold fumbled with his sweatpants. John's sweatpants, ostensibly to show John just how well he's cleaned his butt, John decided that this was a test. The good lord was testing him, and John would not fail. Not with this.

John tucked Harold in to bed. Tight, like a burrito, to ensure that he couldn't get up again. He couldn't quite recall when the night had turned, but it certainly wasn't what he thought it would be going in.

John turned off the heater, to encourage Harold to keep under the covers, while John stayed on top of them. Maybe the cold air would tell John’s dick to calm down, because it sure wasn't listening to John right now.

It would have been _fine_ if Harold hadn't decided that, with the possibility of sex becoming more and more distant, he should talk about all the things he wanted to try with John.

And really, John wanted to be there as support for Harold. That was why he took over from Nathan in the first place. If Harold needed anything, he wanted to be there to provide, and he couldn't provide if he wasn't nearby.

He just wished Harold would stop with the dirty talk. or, rather, he didn't want Harold to stop, and that was why Harold should stop?

(Dear god, he must not have enough blood left in his brain, John couldn't _think._ )

He couldn't even,just tune Harold out, because if he didn't at least respond somewhat, Harold became upset, thinking that John was ignoring him.

Thankfully, it got a little ridiculous after a while, Harold's inexperience shining through. As Harold detailed one fantasy of John simply taking him wherever he pleased, John had a quiet chuckle to himself.

_'Don't forget the lube, Harold,'_ John though to himself, smiling, _'And the prep. Can't forget that,'_

But then the smile slid off his face as he was bombarded with his own ideas of how to prep Harold. Should he use just his fingers? Would Harold let John use his tongue? Or would he want to do it himself, the first time? Images of Harold on his bed, asking John to teach him, please, show him how to open up--

John took the idea out back and put a bullet between its eyes. No doubt it would be back to haunt him later, but right now, Harold was finally falling asleep.

John listened intently as Harold's words became softer and softer, more incoherent, before finally they ceased altogether. John laid beside the sleeping Harold, consumed with lust, until he too fell asleep. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine that when Nathan learns that John and Harold didn't have sex again tonight, he'll swear that he's never met anyone as ready to cockblock himself as John.


	16. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously debated whether i should title this chapter
> 
> "harold experiences regret.exe, and then gets the s.exe"
> 
> but then i'd have to name all the chapters, so nah. 
> 
> HAVE MY STROKE OF GENIUS AS A NOTE INSTEAD

The next morning found a Harold who wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Mortification paralyzed him, rendering him unable to move. Maybe if he was very quiet, John wouldn't see him. Like a fictional dinosaur. There _was_ something predatory about him, still. Harold was willing to take his chances.

"I know you're awake, Harold," John said from beside Harold, dashing his hopes forever.

"Please leave me alone, I would like to expire on the spot in relative peace."

John shifted beside him, and Harold opened his eyes to see John, propped up on an elbow, face inches away.

"A shame to waste all your plans, though," John said, cheeky, smiling. He was so charming at the moment that Harold could hardly look at him.

Harold covered his face with his hands.

"I am already mortified, Mr. Reese, continue only if you wish for me to perish right at this very moment."

"I don't know, Harold,"

john began peppering Harold's hands with kisses. Harold wondered if his face was as crimson as it felt, or if he had found some other, more intense color beyond the visible spectrum.

"I thought it was hot," John went on.

"I've actually already died," said Harold despairingly, "This is hell and I'm being punished for my sins,"

 

\---

 

"You know, I was beginning to think you weren't interested in sex," John said

Harold nearly hit John in the face with his hands are he tore them away from his own face. "What."

Objective (achieved? gotten? I'm looking for a word that sounds like intended), John ignored him, continuing to speak. He did take a moment to hand Harold back his glasses, though. Harold took them with a murmured thank you, eyes still on John.

"But now, I think you might want to have sex more than anyone I know," John's beatific smile acquired an edge "And sex with me, specifically."

He began running his lips along Harold's neck, making Harold squirm, only to pull away, smiling at the noise Harold made in protest.

"I'm not stopping unless Nathan comes back. Or you say his name, even. You kept calling him by my name last night, do you remember?"

 

\---

 

 _'I hadn't until you reminded me,_ ' Harold thought uncharitably. Vague memories resurfaced of telling Nathan he wanted to... sit on him? Lord, Nathan was going to hold this over his head forever, wasn't he?

"Not really in the mood to talk about Nathan, John." Harold said instead, resisting the urge to cross his arms and pout like a child.

"Well, then, if you want me to stop, just say his name." John laughed as he pulled away the blanket between them

"That hardly seems appropriate," Harold started to say, but he squeaked instead, as John chose that moment to cup Harold through his pants.

 

\---

 

John had felt Harold up a couple of times. He did it with great care and affection whenever they had gotten the chance to make out like teenagers. It was fun, but John was super looking forward to getting Harold's cock in his mouth right now.

It was uncut, and a good size, John thought as he got into position between Harold's legs. Not too long, and the head looked _just right_. But the real kicker was that, even through pants, John had been able to tell that it was _thick_. as he stroked it through the cloth, petting it, watching a wet spot begin to form, his  thought it was so good to be proven right. John felt validated.

And Harold's cock was going to feel so good going up his ass one day. But not right now.

(He was still on the fence about getting it later today.)

Right now, John wanted to suck on Harold's thick cock, and only Harold himself could stop him now.

Careful of Harold's hip, he pulled down the gray sweatpants in front of him just enough to reveal Harold's cock. Something in John stirred at the sight of it. ' _No one else has done this,'_ he thought with no small amount of satisfaction. Maybe someone else had touched him here. Made him hard. Made him come.

But as he glanced up at Harold, John was pretty sure that he was the only one to have ever seen that look on Harold's face. That endearing mixture of disbelief and impatience, like he was both shocked that anyone would do this, least of all with him, and also wondering what was taking John so long to get to the good part.

John winked at him, watching a flush start to creep up Harold's neck before turning his full attention to the cock in front of him instead.

Eagerly, John pressed his tongue against the head, flicking up and down. Harold moaned and gasped, so  _sensitive_ ; it was music to John's ears. He watched as Harold brought a hand up to stifle an almost scream when John decided to fuck his tongue between the sensitive head and the skin around it.

John was almost disappointed when Harold's cock became wet enough to go down his throat. Almost. He was enjoying playing with it, of course, but just the thought of having it down his throat made John's own neglected dick twitch in excitement.

He too a deep breath, holding down Harold's hips to prevent any _accident_ (John hadn't sucked a dick in _months_ ) but found out the hard way that Harold was apparently so thick that John had trouble getting his mouth around it without teeth.

Worry seeped in around the third time his teeth made contact, and he checked in with Harold, pulling off.

Only to have more saliva pool in his mouth as he got a good look at how _wrecked_ Harold was. The hand that had been shoved up his shirt (Had Harold been touching himself? Playing with his tits while his partner was preoccupied? John couldn't believe he'd missed it) had been hastily extracted, but that still left Harold's stomach exposed.

Pretty belly, John's lust addled brain supplied, and really, John couldn't blame it for being so stupid right now. It just looked so... _sweet._ Soft and warm, and John was drawn to it like a moth to a flame, pressing his entire face against it.

He was in _heaven_.

"John?" came Harold's voice from what seemed like far, far away. He sounded... confused.

Right. John basically faceplanting into his tummy probably did that. Still, John couldn't find it in him to regret it. Not when a hand came up to run fingers through his hair, sending shivers down his spine. He could stay like this forever.

"John, I want you to be inside me when you, ah, find your release. Is that all right?"

...Well, it was nice while it lasted. Harold was just _determined_ to not give him a moment, wasn't he.

John had heard about this desire of Harold's, many times and _at length_ last night. And if he was being truthful, he'd thought about it on his own time too, what it would be like. So it wasn't a completely _new_ thought. But still, he had to take a minute to calm himself down.

Harold was totally prepared for it, _of course_. He instructed John to get something in the next room, behind a book titled 'Stress Fractures in Titanium'. John obligingly got up to fetch what Harold called his "kit" for them, shedding his shirt as he did so.

(Harold calling it a kit had made John laugh, and made Harold cross. He had asked John what _he_ would call the small pouch containing the items they needed, and was smug when John couldn't think of something better.)

John came back and handed and Harold his _kit_ ,  still grinning. Harold brought out lube, which was a relief, a vaguely concerning variety condoms, and a _dental dam_ , which left John... perplexed.

"You have a dentist kink I don't know about, Harold?" John asked.

Harold flushed a bit, a little embarrassed, but gamely explained. "I have it on good information that dental dams are an essential part of any package promoting safety while conducting sex acts."

"Oh, are they?" John fought to keep a straight expression, in the face of Harold's enthusiasm. But it was difficult. _So difficult_. John should get a medal, really. "I can't say I'm not up for it Harold, but you might have to take the lead on this one, because I have no idea how to use one of these."

"I had thought that _you_ would know," Harold replied, with a little surprise and a lot of despair, which told John that Harold didn't know either.

John couldn't have stopped it if he tried. The laugh that he'd been holding in burst out.

...It was a while before John managed to calm himself down again, but he managed it. Barely. Harold wasn't _quite_ as amused, but John could see the laughter in his eyes.

"Why don't we work our way up to the dental, and just start with the lube and condoms for now?" John suggested with a grin, holding up the two items in his hand.

Harold rummaged around in his kit, and John vaguely wished that he'd taken a chance to peek which he was still in the other room. Part of him was curious about what Harold would bring out next (he was certainly well stocked, for someone who had never done this before. But then, really, John hadn't expected anything else), but part of him could tell that Harold had suddenly become nervous.

"We certainly could use those things," Harold said into the bag, not meeting John's eyes, "But I think I'd prefer it without--" Harold swallowed, "If we did it without all those things between us. With the caveat that you want to, of course." 

As it turned out, what else Harold had in the bag were test results. Harold Osprey was free from sexually transmitted diseases, they announced. And he had John's latest results as well, had apparently been having John tested regularly, as he came into contact with blood as much as he did.

John was too stunned by the offer to properly appreciate the invasion of his privacy. Not John could say with certainty that he would have cared either way.

"Yes."

 _Yes_ , John wanted, suddenly obsessed with the idea of doing something so intimate. He pulled Harold in, dropping the items he had in his hand and not caring where they went.

The offer felt like a little too much. What had John done to deserve Harold. He must have been a saint in a past life, to be so lucky. He'd woken up today expecting a conversation and hoping for a quickie. Instead, he got... Harold. Just, everything he loved about the man in front of him.

"How'd I get to be so lucky?"

Harold just laughed.

"As it happens, I feel very fortunate as well, Mr. Reese."

Harold pulled away, making John protest at the distance between them (The scan few inches felt like miles) but made it up to John with soft face touches, almost achingly tender. John's eyes fluttered closed, feeling grateful that he got to have this. He might have lost Harold last night, yes, but this was about more than that. He'd found someone like Harold, whom he loved, and who loved him right back.

John fought to hold back his tears and failed.

Not expecting this, Harold immediately pulled away, panicking.

"Oh no, have I done something wrong?"

And that made John laugh through the tears.

 _'I'm crying from happiness and he's worried about me,'_ John thought.

He was the luckiest person in the whole world.

 

_\---_

 

John laughing eased Harold's tension a bit. Not all of it, of course. Harold thought this might be the first time he'd ever seen John in tears, and that was a little concerning by itself, but the laughter offset almost all of it. Because if John was smiling, the Harold was smiling (if not in his face, then in his heart, at least)

It seemed easy to fall together again, after the moment had passed.

They managed to get Harold prepped, but ran into a complication. John was too big. Harold was more than a little upset at this, mostly at himself. And John couldn't have _that_. With a little creative thinking, he managed to get them both there.

(They go back to sleep after that, confident that Grace and Nathan could handle things for a little while, and would call them if they needed anything. There were things to be done, of course. Harold would want to help the real Jordan Hester back on his feet, and John was going to pay the fake one a little visit. But for now, all they wanted to do was fall asleep together and rest.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I know I glossed over the sexy bits in the last part of this chapter, but fear not! This is because I plan on releasing at least 2 more fics in relation to this one! A behind-the-scenes draft, and a collection of side stories. I'm guessing that this sex scene will make it there at some point, so don't fret. <3 
> 
> P.P.S. I am a big proponent of safewords being personalized? I mean, I love the stoplight system as a catch-all, but it sort of implies a familiarity with a kink scene that, in this case, the characters don't have? So what I'm doing is sort of trying to capture the emotions behind it. 
> 
> In this case, Safewords are for preventing mixed signals. Like, John knows Harolds kind of uptight and inexperienced about sex, but he also knows that Harold really, really wants to do the do, so the safeword is a compromise. John is like, "I want to help you do this, but if it's too much, just say so, with this specific word so I know it's not just being overexcited or surprised, okay?"
> 
> And, yes, I love that the safeword Nathan, and he's going to be so _pissed _when he finds out.__
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> _"After all my help, I can't believe I'm the signal for you to stop having sex. You insult me."_  
>   
> 
> __  
> _"Nathan, _please _."___  
> 


	17. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeskip again! I think of this as anywhere from months to a year later, whateve

 

"If you didn't feed him doughnuts, we wouldn't be having this problem, Harold."

Harold's affronted gasp came in through John's earpiece. It was quiet enough in the car, John having killed the engine, that Nathan could hear Harold as well. Stakeouts were dull but necessary. It was quite likely that the number wouldn't move from the house until tomorrow morning, but still. Better safe than sorry.

And Nathan wanted to be safe with this one. Right now, they were working on a detective who was just about to whistleblow on HR to safety. If things got a bit more heated on Logan and Mr. Durban's end, he and John would have to basically just abduct Detective Fusco and his son until they were safe.

Nathan rolled his as Harold and John continued to bickering over Bear.

"Bear is a part of our family, John, you shouldn't treat him so cavalierly. He _loves_ doughnuts, so it is our responsibility to find a health and delicious dog-friendly option for him."

"Doughnuts aren't even healthy for _people_ , Harold," Nathan snorted, looking through his binoculars at the curtains of the number's apartment unit across the street. "Finding a healthy alternative for dogs might be a lost cause."

"You think me and Bear as family?" Came John's reply from beside him, and  _oh no_ , Nathan recognized that tone of voice. He was about to get feelings all over him, wasn't he?

Nathan tried to tune them out, really, give them some semblance of privacy, but there was only so much he could short of sticking his fingers in his ears and humming.

So Nathan was there to hear Harold ask John if that was something he wanted. That is, if he would consider doing that with Harold someday. Having a family. They weren't getting any younger, and one day they wouldn't be able to work the numbers.

Nathan knew what brought this on, of course. Grace was currently pregnant, and Nathan hoped to god it was a girl because he'd won a bet against Grace, and if it was a girl they _had_ to name her Wilhelmina.

Beside him, Nathan wasn't surprised to hear that John's reply was yes, of course, _yes_. Nathan didn't really understand how Harold could expect anything else, but there was a chance that his uncharitable thoughts were coming from the fact that he was still pissed at Harold for making him their stop word during sex.

Nathan was sexy, right? Right.

Nathan must have been paying less attention that he thought, because all of a sudden, John was  _bailing_ on him. Telling him that _Harold and I are about to go offline, don't wait up._

To this, Nathan responded with unbridled rage.  

"I regret everything, why are you two actual teenagers."

John just shrugged as he exited the car.

"See ya, Nate."

Nathan brought out his phone to rage-text John.

This will not fly when my son is born, you assholes, send.

 

\---

 

John rushed back to the library, sparing only a few minutes to prepare himself, before pouncing upon an unsuspecting Harold, dragging him (gently) to the couch.

"Not here, Mr. Reese!" Harold struggled in his hold, "This is a public area!"

John leveled him with an unimpressed look. "I can guarantee you that Grace and Nathan have done it on this couch."

Harold made a face, and John couldn't help but continue.

"I bet Will was _conceived_ on this couch, Harold."

The face Harold made became horrified, and John laughed, filled with so much love he could burst. John relented, and switched tracks, walking to their room.

They had a spare room in the library now. After the Hester Incident, as they called it, Harold and Grace had decided to reclaim a few more of the library's rooms. John hadn't seen the point, but he'd dutifully moved furniture where they told him. 

Right now, he was thankful that he hadn't argued, because the room considered his and Harold's had an excellent bed, to accommodate Harold's injuries, and John intended to take full advantage of it.

 

\---

 

(Later, Harold will ask what had sent John back to the library, when he was supposed to be with Nathan. John won't know the answer, except for that he wanted to start a family with Harold right away. Harold will hit him in the face with a pillow, claiming that John wasn't making sense. It will be true, but they will sleep peacefully, regardless. )

 


	18. Finches

Harold was very much  _not_ comfortable with the way his tech had been repurposed for prurient interests.

With the help of Nathan, that enabler who used to be Harold's friend, but was now in league with John, had built John a collection of unholy devices that piggybacked upon the signal of their earpieces, giving them remarkable range. John delighted in using that range to  _torment_ Harold.

Case in point: it had been Harold's idea to use, for lack of a better (more tasteful) term, _marital aids_ , to get Harold to accommodate John. Really, a smaller endowment on John's part would have served them better in this area. But when Harold had told John this, he had just laughed, saying that he couldn't make it smaller, Harold, how would that even work?

And so the compromise was: marital aids. Meaning Harold taking John was a bit more of a production than simply John taking Harold, requiring a bit more planning, but Harold thought it worth every extra effort.

John, of course, agreed, vehemently, and enjoyed taking it a step too far, as he always did. Currently, the devil Harold had fallen in love with turning it on and off, high and low, while Harold was on stake-out with Ms. Morgan in the suburbs. Grace and Nathan, along with heir new teammate Shaw, were currently dealing with another number.

Harold could only surmise that John's solo number had turned out to be an accident, something new that the Machine had come up with, all on her own. Harold couldn't have been more worried for the future of humanity, or more proud of her. 

When John appeared on Harold and Zoe's suburban doorstep, no one was surprised (although Harold was extremely embarrassed).

"You boys are so deep in the red right now, but whatever," Ms. Morgan shrugged after John asked the lady to make herself scarce, "I'm taking bear with me, he's much better company than Harold anyway."

and Harold would be offended, but for two things: the fact that he had been less than attentive to their card game due to John's shenanigans, and that Bear was indeed excellent company.

 

\---

 

The bed was a giant wet spot now. Harold wondered if he should have a new mattress simply shipped here before they left, or if he should just sell the entire house again. 

"Good thing we aren't staying here long." Harold said, already starting to fall asleep.  

"Oh, I don't know, I kind of like it here." John said from beside Harold.

Out of nowhere, that made Harold incredibly sad. He'd mostly let go of the idea that he and John could live normal lives. and Truth be told, Harold was pretty sure they would both find it incredibly dull. But Harold's heart had never listened to reason before, and it certainly wouldn't start now.

"I'm sorry I can't give you a normal life, Mr. Reese." Harold said without preamble. Really, he was a bit cross at himself for ruining the lighthearted mood. John got up, coming to a sitting position beside Harold. 

"You aren't normal, Harold. You're extraordinary, and I love you as you are."

John leaned down the side of the bed, reaching into the pocket of his discarded pants.

In his hands is a box, and Harold's heart stopped in his chest.

"I've kind of been wanting to do this for a while now."

Harold cried.

 

 

**OMAKE**

They were back to snuggling, good mood restored, when Harold had a thought.

"Mr. Reese, which identity should we use when we get married?"

And Harold considered it, thinking. None of his previous aliases seemed... right, somehow.

He was almost falling back to sleep when the idea struck him.

"John," he said, a touch too loudly. Excited.

"Hmm?" John replied. His voice was rough, ready for sleep, but his eyes were wide open. Afraid to look away, lest Harold disappear in a puff of smoke.

"You...you haven't made an alias for me," Harold began, shy for some reason, which was completely illogical, given the giant wet spot on the bed from their previous activities.

"What do you mean?" John asked, curious.

"When we first came here to New York," Harold said, "Grace and Nathan helped me come up with new identities, since I had to get rid of a few of mine."

"You haven't made one. You could, you know."

John looked away, turning red, mumbling.

It took a few repetitions, but Harold finally understood.

"I've... always had a thing for finches," John was saying, having clearly given the matter some previous thought.

Some thought before tonight

Harold buried his face in John's shoulder, liking the way it sounded.

John and Harold Finch

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meta Note:
> 
> I was thinking that the situation with Zoe was what got John thinking, and he knows Harold is it for him, and maybe it's silly, because it's not like they'll use their real names to get married (or even the names they're using now), but John wants to give that to Harold. To explicitly vow that he's going to be there in sickness and in health, to have and to hold, and to cherish, until they're both gone and maybe even after that.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to Yaphre for all the help!
> 
> This fic literally would not exist without you <3


End file.
